Try Harder
by onlyfrequency
Summary: Someone's waiting for Hinamori to wake up.


**Disclaimer;** I don't own Bleach. Nuff said.

* * *

He'd let every chance with her slip through his fingers, telling himself he was content to sit back and watch her become what she wanted to be, watch her leave him for another man even though she didn't know that was what she was doing. He'd let her think what she wanted about their relationship, all the while wondering why he couldn't make himself tell her something, anything that would clue her in, let her know that he wanted to be beside her. Divisions didn't matter to him, squads, titles, prestige. There was only a void, created as she'd drifted away from him to the fifth division. Working hard had only staved off his desperation to be with her, had only calmed him because working hard meant becoming a seated officer too, and that meant they had a reason to see each other from time to time.

It wasn't enough, though. She'd continued to elude his grasp, always rushing out of meetings to be with her captain, always running errands for him that left her with no time to stop and chat.

So when he found himself sitting there, her hand grasped lightly in his, fingers threaded, he didn't question it. Chances were something like this would never happen again, so as it was he'd appreciate the dark cover of night, her gentle breathing, the surprising and deceptively soft touch of her fingers. He wouldn't have expected it to happen, hadn't expected anything from her in a long time. She had always been oblivious, after all.

She hadn't even noticed that she'd completely won him over with that oblivious nature, her natural innocence, a small smile that made him feel like it was his, oh god, his and only his and she'd never look that way at anyone else and it would always be _his_. He didn't want to own her, by any degree, because owning her would imply that she was less than a person and in his eyes she might well have been the very empress of Rome, not that she'd ever wanted to be anything other than the fifth divisions vice captain.

He hadn't noticed he was in love with her, and wasn't really sure he was. He'd just thought it was because she seemed to shine so, that his eyes just naturally followed her. But as the years went on and they grew apart he slowly realized that his own quiet nature had only fooled himself. He had been teased about his attitude towards her, the fact that he was always less strict to the recruits if she walked by, his paper work sloppy if she'd stopped by the office on an errand, his mood happier if she'd graced him with idle conversation.

So maybe it was love, and maybe that was why his heart twisted painfully as she turned in her fitful sleep, murmuring _his_ name again.

Was he not enough then? She'd called many names as she slept beneath the white hospital sheets, but never his, never in all the sleepless nights he'd spent by her side. Even as he held that fragile feeling hand, offering her his heart, his soul, his zanpakuto - to never raise it against her, even though he was sure he couldn't stop such an event from happening again because honestly he had never intended to raise it in the first place his body had just reacted like that - he'd give anything and everything to this shell of a girl he used to know, if she'd just let him be the one to calm her at night.

But she slept on, unaware that he even wanted to help her, oblivious to his meager efforts to stop her from tossing and turning, reliving her moment of horror over and over again in her already broken and shattered mind.

He'd asked the fourth divisions captain once, if maybe his presence made the dreams worse, and she'd frowned at him, shaking her head, telling him she appreciated the company, any company, somebody to be there as night set in, as morning broke. In case she did wake up. A million 'what if's' and possibilities as to what could happen to her, and all he could do was sit there, to offer up his company that she probably didn't even notice in her catatonic state.

Holding her hand was new. She'd never done that before, never shifted slightly towards the warmth he could offer in the relative coolness of the pristine and sanitary hospital room. Not for the first time he caught himself wondering if she wouldn't be better off in her own room, in a place of colour that wasn't grays and whites and blacks and browns, but knowing that if she was there he'd never be able to bring himself to go see her, never want to intrude into her own personal space.

Sure, he'd told her many things that no one else knew, and she had exchanged her own secrets in return, but this wasn't like knowing someone's bankai. The only time he'd ever been anywhere near her room had been years ago, when he'd walked her part of the way home one night.

Would she even be able to walk anymore? He couldn't stand this waiting, making his mind wander from point to point as he questioned the uncertainty that surrounded her, the way the fourth squad attendants would make sure to whisper quietly so he wouldn't hear as they discussed her condition as she wasted away in front of his eyes. Her hand was oddly warm though, and he settled for that, finding solace in the fact that it was a change from her otherwise unchanging situation, always turning slightly this way and that as if trying to break free even as everyone knew she probably didn't want to wake up. Who would, after all? The knowledge that it had been her own captain's blade that had left her in a state was enough to make him break down and cry. He didn't want to think about what it would do to her when she woke, didn't want her to see the faint scar that still remained despite treatment.

He tightened his grip reassuringly as she moaned, gaze flickering to the clock quickly. She always got worse around midnight, her already fitful sleep becoming violent. But she never screamed. Maybe if she screamed, let it out, she'd be able to wake up. That was all he wanted, to see those open eyes one more time, even as she started to thrash, nails digging into his skin. There was never anything he could do at this point but continue to wait, and as always the fourth divisions captain appeared, holding the girl down as she checked the IV drip, checked vital signs, check check checked. Nothing. Not even this time, as he held her hand. The healer's expression didn't change.

And he'd continue to wait as time ticked on, the girl moving restlessly underneath the healer's grip until the other one showed.

He didn't always come, and he liked those nights. He felt they were better for her, that she was able to get stronger because no one came to save her. But he hated thinking that way, because if he could, he'd save her, and he knew that and it irritated him to know that the other nights were the nights she'd actually slip back into something that almost looked like peaceful sleep.

He'd always catch that gaze, no need for words. They shared enough, anyway, with the way they felt about her. Or so he'd always assumed, watching the way the other one would sit beside her, ruffle her loose and dark hair affectionately, lean forward and whisper something, something that no one else needed to hear, something to persuade her to wake up. The healer had smiled once, catching part of what had been exchanged, but he'd never had the heart to ask. He didn't want to know what the other offered the sleeping girl.

Tonight was one of those nights, and the others gaze locked on his hand. He hadn't freed himself from her grasp, and blood dripped from where her nails had dug deep gashes. He hadn't even noticed, his own gaze caught in the way her breathing rushed and slowed as she struggled to escape from what held her mind. Normally he'd move to the corner of the room, allow the other time to whisper his words. But not tonight, not when she'd changed ever so slightly and managed to grab onto his hand, feeling no pain even though he knew he should. He'd become numb while she'd grown pale.

The other shrugged slightly, taking his seat beside her on the bed, hand moving to mess up her hair. Her breathing was already steadying, and oh how he wished he had such power over her, this fragile girl, that she could be so calmed by a single hand to the head. But it wasn't his place and he glanced away, at the white walls, the wooden floor, the whiter ceiling, the dark shadows. Anything but at the boy as he whispered his message one more time.

* * *

He wasn't sure if he was seeing and hearing things from one too many sleepless nights, but the single tear rolling down the genius captain's cheek as she murmured some kind of response seemed pretty real to him.

And it was because of that he freed his hand, bowing apologetically as he turned to leave. He wasn't sure if the words would ever have any effect, but he knew that the boy was trying, in his own way, telling her of all she was missing out on, all that was waiting for her.

Kira would have to try harder then, if that was what she was expecting to find when she woke.


End file.
